


Coffee For Broken Hearts

by gentlezombie



Category: Supernatural, Ten Inch Hero
Genre: Angst, Comfort Sex, Crossover, Humor, M/M, Sandwich Shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-04
Updated: 2009-09-04
Packaged: 2019-09-20 16:18:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17025996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlezombie/pseuds/gentlezombie
Summary: Dean's in hell, and Sam's on a downward slide. Sam walks into a sandwich shop with three dollars and twenty-five cents. The guy behind the counter is really nice though...





	Coffee For Broken Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, this turned out schmoopy. I loved writing Priestly!
> 
> Written ages ago, reposted from LJ.

It’s the beginning of August and the sunlight falls lazy and warm on Priestly’s back. He hums under his breath as he chops the vegetables, tapping the knife in time with the beat. A strand of purple hair falls into his eye and he runs a hand through his hair without thinking.

“Crap,” he mutters as he sees the stains on his fingertips. He’s going to kill the chick who recommended that brand, or at least hide anchovies in her sandwich and take evil glee from her cries of horror.

He dyed his hair two weeks after Tish broke up with him. He misses his mohawk, but the spike number looks kinda cool too, a mess of purple and black. Piper, their resident artist, calls it “the color of his bruised heart”, but he always knew she was a little wacky, and it looks good on him. What wouldn't look good on him, really?

(Haircuts from the 90s and ties and dress-pants that make you think of Days of Our Lives. Not that he’d know anything about it. And that one guy was hot.)

Anyway, Priestly’s returned to his roots, and the combat boots and the hair and the fuck you t-shirts aren't a fuck you, really. It’s just who he is. He’s pissed at Tish for not getting that and even more pissed at himself for forgetting that. He tried to change everything about himself, and turns out that it was everything Tish had actually liked about him. He lets out a bitter chuckle at the memory of Tish telling him that he’s “just too fucking boring” for her.

Shows that love makes people do ridiculous things.

Someone clears his throat uncertainly at the counter. The guy’s young, probably in his twenties, because Priestly has a feeling he looks way older than he is. His hair is too long and shaggy, his jeans dirty, and he seems a little unsteady on his feet.

“How much is a sandwich?” he asks, voice rough but polite.

Priestly says the price and looks as the guy scrambles through his pockets for money, coming up with a sad little pile of change. He counts through them twice and sighs, heading for the door with his cheeks slightly tinged with embarrassment.

Priestly doesn't do charity cases like Jen, not usually, but something about this guy makes him reach out to stop him. He looks lost, totally out of his element, and Priestly just can’t let him walk away and get lost even worse.

“Know what? The sandwich’s on the house if you keep me entertained. Fuck me if I’m letting go of the only customer of the afternoon.“

The guy flinches when Priestly’s hand lands on his arm. He looks hesitant and a little more suspicious than the simple offer of a sandwich should warrant. Then he nods slowly, relief in the hunch of his shoulders, and tries on a smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, is really nothing more than a little twist of lips and a slight shift on his face. It’s enough to make Priestly blink and think, that’s more like it, even though the guy’s still disturbingly quiet.

“Okay, what’ll it be?” Priestly asks mock-cheerily. His newfound charity case stares at the list like it’s written in Latin or something, and Priestly decides to intervene before that lost look evolves any further, because otherwise he’s forced to call the stray dog shelter.

“Everything, got it,” he says with a sigh, and quiets the guy when he opens his mouth to protest. “Everything except anchovies. I hate the bastards.”

He glares at the man, daring him to defy the anchovies-are-evil rule, because no matter how intriguing and kinda ruggedly good-looking the stranger is, he will never be forgiven for anchovies. Priestly’s got some standards.

“Thanks,” the man says and gives him another one of those barely-there smiles. If Priestly knew him at all, he’d tell him to stop, because it’s starting to look painful. Instead, he waves the guy to the direction of the tables and reaches for the sandwich fillings.

“What’s your name?” he shouts after the guy and gets a raised eyebrow. Down on his luck but not stupid, it seems. “I need it for the sandwich wrapper,” he adds nonchalantly.

“But I’m the only customer.”

Priestly purses his lips. “We have a very strict protocol here. Now do you want your sandwich or not?”

“It’s Sam”, the guy says, and his smirk may be dry, but it’s better than the forced politeness earlier.

After a second of thought, Priestly adds an extra-large coffee to the mix. If the years of pining after Tish haven’t completely destroyed his instincts, he bets Sam’s a latte kind of guy. Sam’s eyes widen comically as Priestly clomps to the table in his unfastened boots and sets the tray down. It’s a hell of a sandwich if he says so himself, and Sam looks vaguely intimidated by it, but his expression changes to one of bliss as he takes the first bite. Priestly cheers at himself inwardly.

“Got you coffee”, he says, stating the obvious, as Sam wolfs down the food. Sam mumbles something like thank you and takes sip of it, then looks at him in surprise.

“So, have I judged you wrong or did you just assume a place like this didn't serve a latte?” Priestly leans against the edge of the table with his arms crossed.

“No, I…” Sam rolls the coffee around in his mouth like he’s trying to press the taste in with his tongue. It’s more distracting than it ought to be. “I used to drink latte all the time. Switched to black a couple of months ago.”

Priestly’s got the feeling that whatever got Sam down on his luck coincided with him starting to kill off his taste buds. He doesn’t ask, because it’s none of his business.

He chats as Sam eats, listens to his monosyllabic answers, stares at the flecks of dust floating in the sunshine. He’s got nothing to do, two hours until he’s got to close up. Sam startles him when he finally speaks.

“Are you humming Metallica?”

“Yeah,” Priestly says, realizing that he’s been doing it again. It was one of the more obscure songs and he’s surprised that Sam recognizes it.

“I knew a guy who did that all the time. Used to drive me crazy.” The flat tone suggests that maybe Sam misses being driven crazy.

Priestly huffs. “Metallica’s classic, man!”

“That’s what he said.” Sam’s starting to look downright miserable, and Priestly decides it’s time to change the subject.

It takes some coaching and a lot of bad jokes, but it turns out Sam’s quite the storyteller. Sounds like he’s been to every state, every little backwater town, and he’s got an impressive collection of strange anecdotes. Sam tells them in a quiet voice, long pauses between thoughts, but he’s slowly becoming more elevated. Sometimes, at the middle of the story, he’s about to say something and just clamps shut, changes the subject awkwardly. After some time Priestly realizes Sam’s got trouble changing the ‘we’s to ‘I’s.

Priestly’s sniggering at the story of a misunderstanding with the local law enforcement that was effectively solved with a safety pin and quick feet, when the bell at the door chimes. A group of college students bursts in, loud and chattering. Priestly should be happy for some paying customers, but he kind of hates them. They start a steady stream of customers that goes on for the rest of his shift. When Priestly glances at Sam, he’s sitting at his corner booth and reading a newspaper. He’s circling stuff with a ball-point pen. Maybe he’s looking for a job.

The last customers shuffle out at nine and Priestly starts cleaning up. Sam’s fallen asleep, his long legs stretched out on the seat. He looks young and terribly tired, dark circles around his eyes. Priestly shakes his shoulder gently.

The reaction is immediate. Sam’s eyes flash open and he’s got Priestly’s wrist in an iron grip, all muscles taut and ready to… what? But then Sam blinks the sleep from his eyes, and he lets go with a relieved sigh.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s been a long day. A long couple of months, actually.” That’s not the best of apologies, and normally Priestly would expect something a little better from a guy who just attacked him for no reason, Jesus, but somehow he feels oddly disappointed. He got a glimpse of something just then, something solid and sharp under the road-dust and unwashed clothes. He would have liked to know what Sam would have done.

“You got a place for the night?” Priestly asks instead. 

“I've got my car,” Sam says, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the cracking sound. 

“You could stay over at my place,” Priestly says. He’s almost sure it’s an innocent suggestion. “I promise there aren't too many cockroaches, and it beats sleeping in the car.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says after a while, exhaustion clearly warring with caution and winning. He rubs his eyes as he gets up to go. 

“I can’t guarantee anything about the spiders, though.” 

*** 

When Priestly gets out of the shower, face scrubbed clean and dressed in a pair of red, plaid pajama pants, Sam’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, going through his book collection. The sight is a bit jarring; it’s been a while since Priestly’s brought anyone home, seen them wear his clothes, and they were always too big on Tish anyway. The bright yellow t-shirt fits Sam snugly (BANANAS ARE MY FAVORITE FRUIT, it screams), and his absurdly long legs stick out of the old pair of shorts. 

Priestly pads over the floor. His bare feet make a soft sound on the carpet, enough to warn Sam, who is engrossed in “The Lust Lizard of the Melancholy Cove”. 

“Good stuff”, Priestly remarks over Sam’s shoulder. 

“And I used to think I was weird”, Sam says, turning to look at him. And then he freezes. 

It’s creepy, is what it is. Sam looks like he’s seeing a ghost; he’s completely still, not even breathing, his hands curled into fists in the bed sheets, his face twisted by some undefined emotion. He breaks out of it when Priestly has just started to wonder if it was such a good idea to bring home a potential serial killer. Sam looks at him, his eyes wandering from the proud spikes of his hair to his lip piercing to his pants, and says decisively, 

“He’d never.”

It was the make-up, Priestly realizes belatedly, obscuring his features before. He must look like someone Sam knew. _The_ someone, he’s pretty fucking sure.

“I know better than to take that as a compliment”, Priestly says lightly, even though he’s more than a little freaked out. 

“I tried to get him to do it, you know. I had an obsession about piercings as a teenager, wanted him to live a little, break the rules. Fucking absurd when you think about it. But he wouldn't, said he hated needles…” 

Now Sam looks like he might be about to cry. The corners of his eyes are already alarmingly red. 

“C’mon,” Priestly says, wrapping an arm around Sam’s shoulders. He’s so not ready to deal with a full-on breakdown, but he can’t ignore the misery practically radiating from Sam. “I guess it won’t be better in the morning?” 

Sam lets out a laugh that borders on hysterical, but he shakes his head. “No, it really won’t.” 

They sit like that for a while, Priestly leaning against the wall and Sam slumped against his shoulder. After a while Sam’s not shaking anymore. Priestly catches himself stroking his thumb idly up and down Sam’s arm, cataloging little details: a mole here and there, strong arms but too thin frame, skin tanned enough to let him get away with neon yellow. Priestly decides to risk moving, because otherwise he’ll fixate on the way Sam’s shirt is bunched up around his waist. 

“You want anything to eat?” he asks, heading to the fridge to get himself a glass of milk. 

“No thanks. That monster sandwich almost did me in.” Sam still sounds a bit choked. 

“It wasn't a monster, it was a piece of art. And it wasn't even that big.” 

“Do you know how long it was since I’d last eaten?” Sam’s looking at his knees, playing with a loose thread. There are reddish-dark moons under his fingernails. Probably dirt. Priestly shouldn't be noticing these things. 

“Pretty sure I don’t wanna know.” 

This time the silence is tired and warm, and when Sam yawns and stretches on the bed, the shirt rides up so high it almost exposes one of his nipples, the little bump clearly visible beneath the fabric. Priestly swallows against the rush of inappropriate lust. Sam’s clearly got issues, he’s possibly straight and definitely hard to read. 

This is not the time or the place or the person, but the person in case is looking back at him, and that’s not a straight-boy look. It’s hot and desperate and hits Priestly right in his core. 

“You gonna stand there all night?” Sam says as Priestly shifts indecisively, hand still curled around the glass, and that’s invitation if any. 

He’s barely conscious of his movement as he crosses the floor and climbs up on the bed. Sam’s mouth is warm and surprisingly soft under him, and his hands move all over Priestly’s back, stroking and feeling and grabbing, like he’s starved for touch. Priestly hums into his mouth at the combination of calloused fingertips and lazy tongues and a little teeth. It’s better than anything he’s felt for an embarrassingly long time. Sam’s chapped lips catch briefly on Priestly’s lip ring, the pain sharp and sweet, and Priestly makes a noise low in his throat and pushes him down on the bed. 

They take their time, want slowly unfurling inside, and by the time Sam’s turning over to his stomach, Priestly’s lower lip is red and swollen and Sam’s got a collection of bruises forming on his chest and collarbone. Sam whispers something as Priestly pushes inside, but he’s too distracted by the tight, perfect heat to hear it. He fucks into Sam slowly, his fingers splayed on Sam’s shoulder blades, and Sam arches up into his hands as much as into his cock, his hips moving restlessly against the bed. 

It’s slow and tired and good. At the end of it, when they lie side by side on the bed, Priestly feels oddly choked. Sam’s eyes are closed, his eyelashes fanning a long shadow on his cheek, blending into the dark around his eyes. His mouth is relaxed, lips slightly parted. Sam said a couple of names back there, none of which were his. Now Sam’s face looks open and vulnerable, but there are dark secrets underneath, secrets Priestly doesn't want to know. He settles with hooking one arm over Sam’s waist and smiling a little as Sam burrows closer to him. 

This is what Jen must feel like, Priestly thinks, this is what it is to want to look after someone. 

He thinks it again in the morning when he watches Sam take off. He was not surprised to be woken up by the roar of the engine. Priestly’s feeling sort of sad and mushy and not quite himself, but he’s warmed by the thought of the sandwich bag he managed to smuggle to the front seat. 

In November he gets a thank-you card. It’s got a vivid-green lizard on it. 


End file.
